MARCHING THROUGH FRANCE.

WE were on our way to the front ; but from the general attitude of the men you might have thought we were on a cheap tour. The management was subjected to much criticism. The train was very far from being a (rain de. luxe. We had boarded it in the dark. Forty mon with forty packs and forty rifles had tumbled, no one. quite knew how, into a pitch-dark van, and somehow or other sat down. At first we most of us sat on each other ; but by degrees, and with much wriggling, we managed. to separate ourselves more or less, and squatted through long hours in cramped, contorted. attitudes. At length, in the small hours, the train stopped. and we bundled out, to find ourselves in a tiny French town. There was nothing very interesting or sensational about it al far as we could see. The houses were modern, and of a dull ref brick. The mad was cobbled, and uncomfortable for marching. One could not quite say why, but it certainly had an unfamiliar

air about it. It was somehow not like any English town. There was an indefinable something, about-- the architecture of the jerry-built villas which betrayed the workings of a foreign mind.- We were cold and tired and stiff, and we decided there and then that France was a failure, and that we would• have done better to -stay. at home. We marched through a dull, flat country, with occasional farms, and avenues of trees appearing in a ghostly fashion through the early morning mist. They did not plant trees in avenues like that in England, and we condemned the practice as inartistic.

Very, very . tired, we at last arrive'. at a large barn, and, entering, lay' down in the thick straw and fell fast asleep. A

short sleep accomplished- wonders. We woke to find the May

sunlight streaming in through the chinks of our barn. We felt a good deal less critical than we had ; in fact, we were .prepared to be rather excited at the novelties that life was offering.

The barn was big and -airy, the -straw was clean and sweet. We felt encouraged to investigate further. Outside we found a meadow clothed with long green grass, dotted with oneor

two big trees, and full of -wild flowers. In a corner was a large pond Of clear -water.' We-stripped, found a bucket, and poured

water over ourselves, and then • lay down in the long grass and basked in the sun. We were tasting the joys of the simple life--the life of the tramp, for instance ; and we thought that if it were always May, and if the sun always shone, there might be a good deal to be said in its favour. We felt our British respectability • slipping away from us. The glamour of vagabondage. caught us. When we returned to .our office in the City or our shop in. the suburbs, we would take another holiday after this fashiori, and wander down the English lanes_ one spring morning with a rucksack on our back. We would sleep in an English barn, or under an English hedge, and bathe in the water of some English pool. What would Aunt Maria say.? A fig.for. Aunt Maria ! We were losing our prejudices, and becoming Bohemian in our tastes. We knew then, as we had never known before, what it is- to be young in -the sweet springtime. We had 'never felt like this even at Brighton or Southend ! There was something exquisitely clean and whole- some about this picnic life.

We stayed at the village for several days. In the morning we would go for a walk round • the country. It was rather

amusing, except that " the management " insisted on' our carrying all our luggage on our backs wherever we went ! In the- afternoon we would go and swim in a canal a mile away.

In the evening we were free to roam about the village. It was not a. bit like an English village. There didn't seem to be any proper shops, and nearly every cottage sold something.

Large flat, round loaves, lovely fresh butter and milk and eggs, delicious coffee, cool' weak beer, and cognac—these were obtainable almost anywhere, at the farms and cottages alike.

And these French villagers had a wonderful way. with them. Somehow you never -felt like a customer. You felt like an old and valued friend of the family. You went into a cottage marked " Estaminet," and you ordered your glass . of • beer. You sat and sipped it en famille, with Madame making coffee or cooking supper on the big stove, Mamselle sewing in the corner, and bebi playing on the floor. Sometimes there was a Monsieur too ; but, if so, ho was an old gentleman, who.'smoked his pipe and smiled genially at you. If you could talk any French, taut mieux. There was plenty to talk about, and every one joined in with an easy, well-bred courtesy. worthy of the finest gentleman. Ah, they were wonderful people, these good villagers of — !

Somehow they had the faculty of being sociable.and friendly without any adventitious aids. The Englishman cannot be quite easy with a stranger unless he has stood him . a drink or eaten with him. The English cannot sell you anything and at the same time make you- feel that you are a guest rather than a customer. We felt that there was something to be said for the. French after all. •

Of course there were no young or even middle-aged men in the village. They were all- . . . making a tour in Belgium and Eastern France. That evidently made a difference. Imagine an English village visited by a number of young Frenchmen. If there were no young Englishmen there, but only women and old men, no doubt they.would be received with open arms. The young women would mildly flirt with them, the older women would mother them, and the old men would be quite paternal. But imagine the effectif the English youths suddenly. returned. Then there would be jealous lovers, jealous sons, jealous husbands. The women- would have . to curb their look inclinations. The youths of the two each would leek dewn their noses at each other, and find . each other r" gesticulating monkeys " or " ill-mannered boors." . Each would 'try JO feet" the better race, and would turn to the women as judges 'of . their quarrel. No, perhaps it was just as well -that- at: there were no young Frenchmen. . As it was, we were regularly • feted, and, being on our best behaviour, felt that -we were a success. 'What could be more pleasant and gratifying I '

We did not stay at — very long. 'Soon we were en "route for Belgium. This time we marched ; which would have Veen very pleasant if we had not had to "carryour own luggage. Ait it was, the marches proved very tiring. The only advantage of a pack is that -it makes a comfortable pillow when you do get • a chance to lie doWn. Every hour we had a halt, and lay doWn by the side of the road with our packs under our heads, and'

were happy. We marched through several nice little -French towns, with fine old churches and hotels de vile, and generally. a pleasant square in the centre, full Of seductive-looking auberges and 'caps: Unfortunately,* "the management " did ' not -elect' to let us linger in these jolly, little towns; but hurried 'us on =to • some sequestered farm on the confines of a small village; and billeted us in a barn. -We got to know quite a lot about barns. They are very* nice if they are clean ;" but when they: have ••- been slept in by ,about fifty successive parties in a few !months they .begin to lose their .charm. The straw loses its sweetness; and the water of the pond its crystal clearness. Often we -would' crowd into a barn in the semi-darkness ; and, having ' with difficulty found six foot of floor space for ourselves and 'our - belongings, diacover beneath our heads a little trove of decaying . bully," or damp, mouldy biscuits. We got' used to it ; but it was objectionable at first. On the whole, though, we dia'not fare too badly, and : there was generally a hospitable little Ostamitiel to visit in the evening, and acup of lovely hot coffee o be had in the farm kitchen of a morning. The • sun was. ways shining, the grass green, and the wild flowers blooming.- e said that France was not a bad place to be in in -tho springtime.

TO our *destination we gave never a thought. Such is the *ay of youth. What was the good of worrying ? Wo would' take things as we found them. But when we got into Belgium the stern realities of war began to show themselves. The 'towns we passed through were half empty. Broken - windows, holes - in the roof, and sometimes the front of a house completely gone, told their story of when the . war had swept that way. The people in the villages were no longer genially hospitable. They wore an anxious look, and were obviously out to make money if they could. Our beer was badly watered, and our chocolate cost us more. We did not like Belgium very much.

Finally, we came to the trenches themselves, and all around was desolation and ruin. There are few more mournful spectacles than a town or village lately reduced to ruins. The ruins of antiquity leave one cold. The life that they once harboured is too remote to excite our sympathies. But a modern ruin is full of tragedy. You see the remains of the furniture, the portraits of relations on the walls,- a child's doll seated on a chair, a little figure of the Virgin under a glass case. In the middle of the ruinous square is the little iron bandstand, and you can almost 'see the ghosts of the inhabitants walking up and down, laughing and chatting and quarrelling, with no . sense of the disaater overshadowing them. Yekl wonder what became of* them, The girl whose rosary lies upon that dressing-table, and who doubtless prayed to that little figure of the Virgin every night, was she raped by some bloodstained Uhla.n, or did. she escape in time to relations or friends at a safe distance ? And to what purpose were all these homes sacrificed ? Why are all :those good people scattered and beggared and fugitive ? Cui bona ? On the Day of -Judgment some one. will. have -to answer. As we thought of the pleasant towns and -villages that wo had •left behind, with their honest, kindly inhabitants, we set our teeth and resolved that, if we could prevent it, the receding tide should never return over the fair lands of France.

So long we stayed in these scenes of desolation that we almost forgot what a live town looked like. It is hard- to describe the delights of the journey home, -made in far other..fashion than the journey out. As we sat in the corner of our carriage in the train de luxe, and watched the busy life of the .towns • through which we passed, we felt as if we had awakened from. .. 4 nightmare. But that was -many months ago, and now that we are sound of limb again we hear the call of desolate Belgium,

and: hreatened France, and long. to do our bit once. more to haSten that so slowly receding tide of devastation.

A STUDENT IN ARMS.